Home Fires Burning
by Wayoming
Summary: Centering on Greg Lestrade, beginning with an admission of weakness to a friend, and him following his heart.
1. In The Dark

**Here's another little ficlet for you! I hardly ever write Lestrade, but I enjoy it! This began as a joke someone made about Lestrade being left behind in TGG...**

IN THE DARK:

Looking at Greg Lestrade it was easy to tell who he was. His voice had the edge of a man used to giving orders, with the balance of diplomacy of a fair leader. His stance spoke of having to he on his feet for hours on end.

But there were things that merely looking at him couldn't reveal. Like the fact that he would laugh hardest at Carry On films. Or that his favourite flavour ice cream was mint choc-chip. Or that he had scars on his conscience from a drunken mistake at the age of 19.

But there was something about Greg Lestrade that no one knew. Something that he refused to reveal to any amount of colleagues, friends or lovers. Something that he was deeply, deeply ashamed of.

Greg Lestrade is afraid of the dark.

He had been since he was small, and had been forgotten about in a game of hide-and-seek. He was trapped in that cupboard, having stupidly shut the door behind him, for four hours. In pitch black. He cried more then than he would ever admit to.

No one knew about this crippling fear. He had been alone with his shame for as long as he could remember. Until he found himself shut in a freezer with John Watson.

The lights had gone off about two minutes ago, and John's reaction had been little more than groan of  
>"Perfect. Flipping <em>perfect<em>."

"John." Lestrade said calmly, only John would have noticed the slight tremor in his voice. He had been fine moments ago. "The lights John. Why have the lights gone?"  
>Panic had now fully bloomed in Lestrade's chest, and he flung an arm out to find the doctors warm hand. A small reminder that he was not alone.<p>

The darkness swamped them.

"They must be on a timer Greg. They don't usually leave people in here for too long."  
>"Then why are they off now."<br>His hand clenched. John squeezed back comfortingly.  
>"Because the time is close. And we need to be in here when Sherlock gives the signal."<p>

Lestrade's mind went blank. He couldn't remember a signal. His breathing began to quicken. The blindness was playing tricks with his mind. He thought he could see things moving in the pitch black, could feel things writhing around his ankles, could feel a brush across his lower back. All he knew was real was the warm touch of John's hand.

"John?" he whispered, barely able to work up enough breath  
>"I'm here." he said evenly.<br>"I-I can't-"  
>"You have to." John cut across him, "Not long now. I promise."<p>

The writhing around his ankles began to speed up, Greg swore he could hear noises, could hear clicking and slithering in the cold darkness around him. The brushing along his back had become a pressing, breathing coming from over his shoulder. His heart was pounding in his ears as the darkness became like a cloying cloth, clinging to his throat and face, stopping his breathing. His face had become slick with sweat, and he imagined that John's hand would slip away from his. He would end up alone. Alone in the dark.

It was so dark that Lestrade hadn't realised he'd passed out until he woke up outside, with a glaring orange street lamp blinding him.

A bored sounding voice rose above the din of shouts and traffic, and Sherlock's face swam into view.

"Fear of the dark. Originates from childhood. Boring." He then skulked off again.  
>Lestrade heard a softer, familiar voice scolding Sherlock until-<br>"Hello Greg, feeling better?" John had come back with a smile on his face. For a moment Greg hated that smile. It meant that John felt sorry for him, pitied him. He didn't need that from someone who shouldn't even be *near* a crime scene thank-you-very-much.

"I'm fine, John." He said. It didn't come out as harshly as he's intended. John smiled a little more, helping Lestrade sit upright.  
>"Don't mind him. He's being a git because the thief had differently coloured hair to what he expected."<br>John rolled his eye dramatically, offering Lestrade a bottle of water.  
>He took it gratefully.<p>

He did like the doctor. He didn't really begrudge him being there with Sherlock. Hell most of the time he cleaned up Sherlock's social messes without anyone being any the wiser.

"So you're afraid of the dark, eh?"  
>Lestrade stiffened under John's scrutiny. "You might want to talk to someone about that."<br>He fished a pen and piece of paper out of his jacket pockets and scribbled two hasty phone numbers before handing the crumpled paper to Lestrade.

"The first one is a therapist. No pressure-" He added, aware that he might be offending Lestrade, "just someone to talk to."  
>"And the second?" Greg hazarded.<br>"My mobile." John returned "Should you need me."  
>John smiled warmly again and stood, leaving Greg to get up at his own pace.<p>

Yes, Lestrade liked John very much. He could use "just someone to talk to."


	2. Candlelight

Second chapter of something that started as a quick joke… But continued on to become a mini-series about Greg Lestrade…and his heart.

**Candlelight**

_Just__friends.__Just__friends.__Just-__Hell._

Chanting in his head clearly wasn't helping. Because they _were_ just friends. But that didn't stop the tight feeling in his chest. Lestrade took another gulp of the pint in front of him, avoiding looking into the eyes of John Watson. Happily oblivious as he chatted away.

It hadn't been easy, ignoring what had been happening to him. In fact it had become such an ache that he found himself resenting those who could spend more time with John than himself. Like the other officers, now friends, his easy demeanour had earned him. Like his patients, unlucky as some were he couldn't help almost wishing himself ill just to feel his warm touch again.  
>And Sherlock. <em>Especially<em> Sherlock.  
>He had become a little resentful of the brooding, sweeping detective. How he could command John's attention from across a room, could text him and have him come running, could make him drop everything and have him at his side at a moments notice. He hated it.<br>The jealousy curling in his stomach spiked as John updated Lestrade on the developments in a case that he had set them on earlier that week.

The worst part of the whole situation was just how little John seemed to see. It was just like Sherlock liked to say  
>"You <em>see<em> but you don't _observe_."  
>But Lestrade had <em>observed<em> alright. And what he'd discovered had started to break his heart. He had known, from the moment that Sherlock had dragged him into Lestrade's crime scene, that John adored Sherlock. John would do anything for Sherlock. John had killed for Sherlock. John..._loved_ Sherlock.  
>And the bloody git loved John too. It's just too bad that everyone knew except for John and Sherlock themselves.<p>

Which left Lestrade where exactly? Oh that's right. No where. That left him calling Holmes in on mediocre cases, things that he turns his nose up on as soon as he glances over the evidence, just so he could see John Watson too. He knew it wasn't the most grown up way to go about it, but hell why does he have to be a grown up all the time?

Lestrade could feel his attention focussing in on John's lips, at the way it quirked dryly whenever he described Sherlock saying something particularly dense. He always looked happy when they were talking about Sherlock. Greg felt the jealousy snake up in him again, but it was quickly suppressed when he noticed that John had stopped talking. He had, in fact, asked Greg a question.  
>He looked at John blankly.<p>

"What?"  
>John huffed good-naturedly, blowing his hair off his face. It had grown rather quickly in the past months, and he had developed a sort of cowlick thing that Greg quite liked.<br>"I was just asking what's going on with you. You seem a bit...off."  
>Greg noted the concern creeping into John's voice. He felt guiltily happy about that. He knew that John cared about him as a mate, and it was nice to have him ask how he was. Even if Greg himself would say he was acting like a pathetic pup.<br>"I'm okay." He takes another sip of his pint, avoiding John's gaze. "Just tired I guess. I, ah, I went to that therapist you suggested." Greg ventured quietly.  
>"Yeah?" John replies, sounding interested, "How'd it go?"<br>"Pretty well," Lestrade says, "I'm really starting to come along." He flexes his hand on the tabletop, remembering the subject of some of the conversations that had taken place, "She's really quite good-"  
>John had given his flexing hand a reassuring squeeze when his voice had become a little strained.<br>"I'm glad to hear it, Greg." John smiled, hand letting go of Lestrade's slowly, taking a drink from his own pint.  
>"Well," he says, trying his hardest to sound light-hearted and failing miserably, "it was good to have someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't, well, y'know-"<br>"Take the piss?" John supplies quietly.  
>"Yeah." Greg says roughly.<p>

They lapsed into silence. Greg glanced around their usual pub, taking in the noise of the weekday-early-evening crowd. The constant low rumble of others talking covered the obvious fact that they were not.

"You could have talked to me you know." John says levelly.  
>Greg swallows a little, wondering which...problem he could be talking about, and John continued before he can reply, "I wouldn't have taken the mick, Greg. Just 'cause some fears are irrational, doesn't make them any less fucking scary."<br>He had a hard look in his eye, almost as if Greg had said something wrong. He hadn't.  
>"I know John. I would have but-"<br>"But?"

Greg looks back into John's eyes. There's a quiet fire there that isn't anger. It's protective, not angry. He couldn't tell John why he wouldn't talk to him about it. He just knew he *shouldn't*. Shouldn't have felt as safe as he did once John had taken his hand. Shouldn't have warmed inside when he woke to  
>John's careful ministrations. Shouldn't feel as though he couldn't talk to John just because-because.<p>

It had been quiet again for a little too long. And John was still waiting.  
>"But?"<br>"I couldn't. Not then."

John nodded. Understanding.  
>Something had changed in their conversation. One minute they had been happily chatting about cases, then John had brought up Sherlock, and now he was pressing Greg for information.<p>

He felt as if John was asking Greg as though he wanted Greg to ask him to. John looked like he needed to talk. Greg wondered how long it would take for John to realised just how besotted he was with Sherlock, and to ask for help about it from someone. From a friend. *Just someone to talk to.*

Would he want to talk to him? What if he wanted Greg's advice? How would he feel if John, the object of his affections, came to him, embarrassed and shy and asking for help? Asking about Sherlock- forget that. He knew how he would feel. It would not be good.

He had to talk to John. He had to tell John how he felt. It would be the only way to escape- _that_.

He wondered how to go about it. Jumping in head-first seemed like the best bet. John always appreciated bluntness.

"John I-"  
>Greg didn't get the chance to even pretend he knew what that sentence was going to become, because John Watson had pressed his lips against him. They were warm, and chapped, but very definitely <em>there<em> on Greg's own lips. His brain finally caught up. _John__Watson__was__kissing__him._ Not only that, but he had begun to gently probe Greg's tongue with his own. His hand cupped John's face as John deepened the kiss, something akin to desperation colouring it. There was hunger there, and passion, and everything Greg had ever imagined a kiss from John Watson would be like. Except there was a small part of him that knew that this hunger, this passion, this _everything_ wasn't directed at him.

It was a wonderful kiss. Greg's heart broke a little when he realised he would have to end it.  
>Pulling away, he looked anywhere but at John's eyes as he wrapped his coat around him and said<br>"I'm sorry John. I can't do this."  
>John's eyes were wide, and he was beginning to look embarrassed. Greg knew he'd done it out of instinct and want. But not want for him. He stood up, looking John in the eyes, stomach clenching as he righted himself.<br>"I'm not the one you want John." _God__I__wish__I__was._  
>John looks away. Lestrade looks down at the hang-dog doctor. He wants to run his fingers through John's hair. He wants to drag John upstanding and press him hard against a wall. He wants John to want him. But John can't even look at him.<br>"I'm- I'm gonna go-"  
>"Why?"<p>

John's eyes bored into Greg's. He looked hurt, and confused. Greg felt like he could relate to that. He shook his head sadly, hating himself for what he's about to do.

"Go home John. You need to talk to Sherlock. There are a few things you need to know."

John nodded. Lestrade turned away and began to walk away. Stopping only when John's warm hand caught the crook of his arm.  
>"Sorry Greg, I didn't-"<br>"Don't." He said firmly. "You weren't to know."  
>John's eyes clouded with suspicion.<br>"Know what?"  
>Greg's smile was small and ashamed.<br>"Nothing. Nothing you can change."

He leaves the pub, hoping beyond hope that John will come after him. He hails a cab and goes home, desperately trying to deny the jealousy and loneliness coiling in his heart.


	3. Kindling

John had never been more apprehensive about reaching for the door into his home. His home he shared with the most difficult, distracting, _dazzling_ man he was ever likely to know. And yet-

He shut the door to 221B behind him, resting his forehead on the cool wood, flashes of his own stupidity dancing before his eyes. _I kissed Greg. And he-_

He kissed back. He kissed _back_. And he'd said things that John just couldn't ignore.

_"Go home John. You need to talk to Sherlock. There are a few things you need to know."_

He had to find out what had happened.

"John. How was Lestrade?" Sherlock was sat cross-legged on their sofa. All bunched up and knotted, face a studied calm as he read the sheets of paper laid out on the coffee table before him.

John merely looked at him. He couldn't speak. Not about this. Not to Sherlock.

He turned tail and trudged upstairs to his room.

Greg sighed heavily, his breath steaming the cab window for just a moment before disappearing. He had spoken to John. That counted as something, surely? It wasn't as if _he_ was the one who had made things awkward had- it struck him again that _John_ had kissed _him_. His heart hammered uncomfortably as memories swam before his eyes.

Old memories he knew that, sooner rather than later, John would be privy to. Sherlock would tell him everything.

_It was hot, and it was rough. It was all teeth and hands and moaning. It was Sherlock all over._

Lestrade closed his eyes. He dragged a hand across his tired face. Willing the cab to move faster, to get him home.

_They were in an alleyway. It had been cold all day_.

Greg saw with relief that they'd pulled up outside his flat. He paid the cabbie in a hurry, glad when he finally slammed the door on the cold outside. He couldn't shut out his memories as easily.

_Sherlock had turned up at Lestrade's crime scene, dismissed everyone in sight, and flounced away. He had been a bastard. And Lestrade was furious._

_His fingers had jabbed the keys of his phone, fury making his hand shake slightly._

_"Sherlock!" He bellowed down the handset. "You've got some fucking nerve!"_

_The bored drawl curled up through the phone._

_"I prefer to text, Lestrade."_

_"I don't give a flying fuck! You cannot just turn up, cut down my officers, insult me and then disappear off to wherever it is you disappear off to! Either you start stopping or so help me I'll pull rank and have you arrested next time!"_

_Greg knew it was a hollow threat. He needed Holmes' help too much to shove him away. It was just sometimes-_

_His thoughts were interrupted by a low laugh._

_"What are you doing in half an hour?"_

_The question undercut Greg's anger in such a way that he was blindsided, and couldn't help but answer_

_"Ignoring my ever-growing mound of paperwork and going home." He didn't ask why Holmes wanted to know. Because_he_ didn't want to know._

_"Not anymore."_

Greg chuckled at the memory of how sharp Sherlock had been. Before John. He hadn't had what Greg had started called his "walking-morality-gauge". John had changed Sherlock. He changed everyone he came into contact with.

_He tried to ignore Sherlock. He really did. But when over 6 foot of dark-haired velvet-voiced mystery turns up at your door at two in the morning, the is very little you can realistically do._

_"What are you doing here Holmes?" Greg rasped, having only got into bed half an hour ago. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him, dreading what the glint in the detectives eyes meant. He already knew. It meant the_work_. "Uh, come in?" he offered redundantly as Sherlock simply walked past him into his flat. Without sitting down, or even bothering to face him, Sherlock picked up the nearest knick-knack (in this instance a glass pigeon from his niece, a gift he'd never really understood) and flung out_

_"You have five minutes to dress appropriately, or I will be dragging you out the door in whatever state of undress you happen to be in."_

_It took several seconds for Greg to realise what had happened. It took another few to brush away any thought of arguing with the man before him and turn to his bedroom. Another three and a half minutes and he was pulling on his gloves and shoes, holding the door open and following Sherlock out into the night._

_They walked in silence. Greg hadn't worked up the words to confront Sherlock. He merely followed as he was led down side streets, and up back streets, until they came to a small square, empty of people and freezing. It had three lamps, lighting the path through the middle of it, elusive urban darkness engulfing it on either side. Below the third street lamp a figure stood with his back to the silent pair._

_Finally Sherlock turned to Greg, nodded slightly, eyes never leaving the figure, and said_

_"If he runs, we run."_

_Greg couldn't help but think that the_if_ was unnecessary. He sighed a little to himself as Sherlock strode up to the stranger, ensconcing himself in shadows and waiting for a signal._

_"I must be dreaming," Greg thought, "I'm out in London at nearly 4 in the morning, following a man who-"_

Greg winced again. Looking back he hadn't exactly _hated_ Sherlock. He hadn't yet the tenuous friendship that recent months has won him, but he respected him. If he was completely honest, he was in awe of him. That's probably why what happened next was so easy to fall into.

_Greg was running. Full tilt, legs pumping, burning lungs running. Sherlock was alongside him, just ahead, and they had the man in their sights. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Greg narrowed in as a particularly sharp corner loomed, a last spurt of speed meaning he had the runners arm in his grasp- almost,_almost_ - before feeling a large body colliding solidly with his own, knocking him off balance and sending both tumbling to the ground._

_Greg snapped his head up off the ground, furious and writhing under the surprisingly heavy weight of the self same man who had dragged his sorry arse out of bed to be here._

_"_Holmes_ you_arse_ get the fuck_off me_!"_

_Breathing hard and able to feel his heart racing Greg rounded on Sherlock_Bloody_ Holmes. Preventer of sleep, irritant to the_entire_ of Scotland Yard, arrogant sod and_bloody laughing_._

_Laughing._

_Sherlock had lost his man. And he was_laughing.

Greg remembered the laughter. It had seemed to shake the bulk of Sherlock's body, and even now looking back, it wasn't half as human as John made him. Sherlock smiled more, seemed to enjoy the work more, with John. John made Sherlock _human_. John could fix anyone. _He fixed me._

_"Why are you laughing? Holmes?_Sherlock-"

_His voice was cut off by Sherlock's hands either side of his face. His back suddenly hit the wall of the alley they had fallen into. The cold air surrounding them felt close, and Sherlock's face was closer._

_"We lost him." Greg said simply._

_"I know."_

_The mysterious reply was all Greg was given before the infuriating, insufferable, idiot Sherlock Holmes had crushed his lips upon Greg's own. His whole body felt crushed under the surprise and the weight of Sherlock's close body. He could feel Sherlock's teeth begin to nip at his lower lip, a deep growl escaped the mans mouth and - God help him- Greg was his to command. He could feel the hard pressure of his erection strained and trapped by the strong length of Sherlock's body-_

Greg pushed the memory from his mind. It had been fast, it had been hard, but _God_ it had been good. And Greg had found it hard to separate the Holmes he saw at crime scenes to the one he had seen then. He had been closer to human then than Greg had ever seen him before. Or since.

Until John.

His stomach swam again with guilt. His face heated and he only hoped that John-

What would John say to Sherlock when he told him about this?

Greg threw himself bodily into the soft folds of his bed.

_Fuck_.

John made his way back downstairs as quietly as he could. His pact with himself was clear. If Sherlock was around, he would talk to him. If not, he would make a cup of tea and go back to bed. His bare feet padded softly throughout the flat, the darkness of the sitting room hiding the lone figure glaring out of the window, he began to make a cup of tea.

"John." came the deep voice from behind him "You want to talk."


	4. Raking Embers

**AN: Sorry this chapter took so long! Enjoy! **

**Wayoming**

In the dark of Baker Street, the silence had become thick. The night had begun with a well-meaning drink with a friend, and had become this- what was this? What was this cloying tension that had wrapped itself around John's brain? Why was it suddenly so dry in his mouth? Why was the air so close?

John turned slowly to face his flatmate head on. Apprehension swirled in his stomach. He knew the next words he chose could change everything. The tea brewing behind him was fully steeped, but he made no move to remove the teabag.

"Yes. I want to talk to you... about Greg."  
>Sherlock's eyebrow quirked, his eyes unerringly boring into John's. There was a pregnant pause, the usually velvet darkness broken by the sound of a car horn in the street outside.<p>

Sherlock offered nothing. He didn't ask John to talk, or to sit down, and somehow that made this worse. He just _looked_, looked only the way Sherlock could _look_. John swallowed, hard, and wondered again why he felt the need to talk to Sherlock, _of all people_, about this.  
><em>Because...Because it's Sherlock.<em>

"I kissed him." John paused, the admission quiet and quick. "At the pub. And he-" He broke off, unsure of whether to continue.  
>"He said to speak to me." Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question, but John found himself nodding anyway.<br>"Why?... Sherlock?"

Sherlock left the pause, looking into his flatmate's eyes. And still said nothing. What could he say?  
><em>John, Lestrade and I had conducted in sexual congress in a public place, he probably doesn't think you would be comfortable with that<em>? He didn't know how to approach this new sense of John: interested and interesting. _But not in me_ his brain betrayed him. _Am I not interesting enough for you, John? Do you not say "fantastic" and "brilliant" and mean it? Or is it all too much?_  
>Keeping his brain in check however he merely held John's gaze and feigned ignorance.<br>"'Why' what, John?"

John had become very uncomfortable very quickly, and decided that bluntness was his best way forward with Sherlock.  
>"Why, when I kissed him did Greg say I should talk to you?"<br>Sherlock's throat had run dry. _This is it then? This is how John finds out?_ He swallowed thickly. _Alright._

"Because we have... We have a _history_, Lestrade and I. And he knows how I feel-" He broke off, looking away from John. He drew a ragged breath. "He knows how I feel about _you_, John."

The silence stretched out longer than Sherlock imagined it would. He waited for the inevitable questions, unwilling to give anything before John asked for it.  
>John stared at what seemed to be a very interesting part of their kitchen floor. Sherlock could see that he was trying to form some form of question. He waited patiently.<p>

John looked up at Sherlock, and really _looked_. The blue gaze took in the hair that looked as though long fingers had been run through it in frustration. Saw the only casual clothes he knew Sherlock owned, pyjama trousers and t-shirt, hanging loose on his taught frame. He saw the closed, protective stance Sherlock had adopted. And finally he saw the look in Sherlock's eyes. He saw Sherlock for what felt like the first time: raw and _human._ He knew he had to ask.  
>"And how <em>do<em> you feel... a-about me?"

Sherlock stared. He considered all the different ways he could approach this, the reams and reams and words and words and _you are my everything _and _I can't breathe when you're around _and running like madmen and his steady gun-hand and the solid weight of him and talking long into the night and never sleeping and dreams that follow into the day and cliches and songs and poetry and everything that is _John_, his smell, how he moves, how he speaks, the movement of the air through his lips as John says his name and the warmth in his eyes and he passes Sherlock's phone and none of it seems enough to explain. The images and words danced and swam before Sherlock's eyes and he dismissed it all. It would never be enough.  
>He stepped close to John, enjoying the breath he could hear John release against his exposed throat. He looked deep into the eyes of the man below him, the height difference had never been so apparent. Sherlock chose the only words he thought could encompass everything that John meant to him.<br>"I want you."  
>"<em>God." <em>John breathed quietly. "You could have said earlier, Sherlock." John closed his eyes and tipped his eyes forward, breaking the look that had seen him, seen right down into his heart. His forehead rested against Sherlock's sternum, the contact somehow distant but intimate. "Why didn't you say _something,_ you great idiot." John breathed again.

Sherlock allowed his face to crease into a confused moue, thankful that John couldn't seen it. How could John have been so blind? How could he have not have known?  
>"All this time, Sherlock, all this <em>time. <em>And _now _you say something?" With a soft push, John removes himself from Sherlock's personal space, meaning to leave the kitchen, only to have Sherlock grip his wrist sharply and turning John to face him again. John doesn't look him in the eye. John has tensed. Sherlock can feel his pulse accelerate. Something else colours John's voice when he next speaks.  
>"Sherlock, let go<em>.<em>"  
><em>Anger.<em>  
>Sherlock didn't let go.<br>"Sherlock. Let. _Go."_  
>Sherlock still didn't let go. John tried to shake his hand free. And Sherlock's grip tightened. <em>John, look at me. Just look at me.<em>

"If that's how you feel," Sherlock asked softly, "then why did you kiss Lestrade?"  
>"Because I felt like it." John said simply. He still hadn't looked into Sherlock's eyes. He didn't know if he wanted to. He didn't want to see Sherlock's face when he finally got out what had to be said.<p>

John had known from the beginning that something would change. He remembers the first time he saw Sherlock differently, the first time he imagined pressing his lips, his hands, his body against Sherlock's. He remembered the months of pining, of running away, of tamping down the need to _talk to Sherlock _to _be near Sherlock _to _touch Sherlock. _  
>And then there had been the case where Greg and he had been trapped in that freezer together. There had been a spark of something, a friendship, a something that was different, something wasn't <em>all about Sherlock. <em>The feeling that someone _needed _him, would actually _respond _to him. He had fallen for Greg's easy friendship, had liked the fact that someone wanted to talk to _him _for once. And now this news, that Sherlock had...  
>John had been swallowed up by Sherlock, like a drop in the ocean. His entire life had become reliant on Sherlock and following him around. And so had Greg's. They had made a connection.<p>

He breathed in deeply, knowing that what he said next could shatter the tenuous treaty that had formed between them.  
>"I wanted something that I thought you didn't want. I could see myself falling for-for you, Sherlock. And I wouldn't allow it. There was something that made me hold back." He lifted his gaze, "Can you blame me?"<p>

Sherlock shook his head, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. He knew how much John gave up by just being his friend. How much more could Sherlock ask for before John said _enough._  
>No. He couldn't blame him. And now, because of what he was like, he was losing John.<br>He let go of John's wrist, there were no words. Within the last few minutes, everything that he thought he could hold onto had slipped through his fingers like sand. As he watched John turn away, he felt the world slow. Everything John had ever made Sherlock feel flew through him, his chest tightening. Any number of situations and outcomes flitted through his brain and all he could think of doing was grabbing John by the shoulders and shaking him and never letting go and- _God damn it._  
>He crossed the gap between them in a single stride, and gripped John by his hips. Far more softly than he wanted to, Sherlock brought his lips to John's. The warmth of John's body as it flushed against his own made Sherlock gasp. John's lips were everything that Sherlock had hoped they would be, and as they moved against his own, he never wanted it to stop. He wanted John to <em>understand, <em>he wanted John to _want_ him, to _need _him, the way that _he_ needed him_._ All too quickly the heat, the hands, the _lips_ were gone, and John was shaking his head, and muttering and _gone_.  
>"John-"<br>"No, Sherlock. I-" John rubbed a hand over his worn face. Sherlock tracked the progress of the broad fingers, hiding John's face piece by piece. "I have to be alone right now."

With a last lingering look John turned tail and headed heavily upstairs to his room. It wasn't until he heard John's door close that Sherlock let himself move. His legs crumpled beneath him, the cold tile of the kitchen floor hitting his knees hard. He shut down his emotions sharply, the fear of everything,_ everything _crashing in on him. His thoughts, however, had other plans, he could feel the hot rush of _pain _sweep through him.

_I shouldn't be surprised. _He thought desperately._ I should have seen this coming. Should have known that he would have been the one to rip my ugly heart right out from my chest. This pain, it's not right that someone can cause you this pain without even touching you. Hit me, kill me, just _touch_ me. John just come back downstairs. Come back downstairs and speak to me. I'll settle for your words, just don't _leave.

It was after dawn when Sherlock finally retired. He was asleep before the clatter of John's footsteps and the click the front door sounded through the flat.


	5. Leerie

**I know, I know, this has been forever in coming. But I have now finished my degree work, and have time to finish this! I think there's at least one more chapter for this, if not two. So...Enjoy! **

**Leerie**

London in the early hours of the morning is quieter than midnight. In between the end of one day and the beginning of the next, parts of London are practically silent. The cobbled back streets, the deserted parks, the neon-lit squares, all quiet and calm. The hustle and bustle confined to the Underground barely impacts on Baker Street as John Watson heaves in a deep breath and shuts the door to 221B behind him. The long night seemed an age ago, the reality dwindling as dawn broke gently on his face, a _lifetime_ ago. He shook his head softly, blinking as the weak sunlight broke over the slick road and pavement before him. The smell of rain lingered in the air. _Washing the world clean, there's time to start again_, John thought. He began to walk. He didn't know where he was heading. He didn't think it mattered.

John's life had always been a balancing act. On the one hand he had everything anyone had ever said to him, everything that everyone expects of him, _had _expected of him since he was 15 years old. Everything that everyone thought he was and did and thought. Everything. And on the other; everything he actually was, and felt, and thought and wanted. He had been juggling with the imbalance for years, with little concern as to whether anyone noticed him struggling. Being a doctor had meant maintaining distance, and being a soldier had taught him discipline. His struggles had remained his own, easy to suppress or dismiss when the time came.

Returning to London, with nothing but his thoughts and a limp, had changed that. He still struggled and felt and hid. But instead of suppressing it, he had embraced it; any small emotion or victory or anguish became further proof that he was _alive_. Some days it had been enough just to know he was still was. Some days it hadn't.

He had been lucky to meet Sherlock Holmes when he had. There was only so long a man could stand his own company. Meeting Sherlock had out and out changed John's life. 

And that was precisely the problem. When it came down to it, Sherlock had _become_ John's life. He ate with Sherlock, worked with Sherlock, lived with Sherlock. There was no area of John's life that hadn't been completely swamped by Sherlock. And he wasn't sure if he could be happy about that. But he wasn't alone in this. Because there was Greg, too. Greg who had been pulled into Sherlock's orbit. Chewed up and spat back at the world, head spinning and heart shattered.

His hands were shoved in his pockets, glancing over his wallet, the only thing he'd taken with him. He just needed to get out. Sometimes John wondered whether he had developed some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome, that being around Sherlock for so long had somehow affected how he saw society.

John found himself standing in silence, wondering idly what time it was. He remembered lying awake earlier that morning, before the grey light of morning had begun beckoning a new and difficult day, dragging himself out of bed and out into the world.  
>He could almost feel the warmth of a hand slipping into his own. He flexed stiffly. He couldn't do this anymore, this aching want. He had to go. He had to tell him <em>now. <em>Yes, he had reached a decision. 

_Time? _

He didn't care. It was important that he talked to him. _Now. _That _kiss. _It had meant so much to John...  
>He walked purposefully, course and mind set. Only partially thrown off by his surroundings, having walked without direction or purpose for so long he felt lost. Though he loved London he couldn't keep a map in his head in the way Sherlock could. <p>

_Sherlock_

_._  
>John couldn't imagine Sherlock's face when-<br>Well. That would come. 

Eventually he found his way. He stood before the door, steeling himself, thinking through what he was going to say. He raised a fist, knocked, and waited a beat, heart pounding. This was it. The turning point where it would all change.  
>The door opened. John smiled shyly. <p>

"Hi." 

The man stood back and let John pass, closing the door behind him, leaving one less person wandering around in the pale morning light.

**The title from this chapter comes from the Robert Louis Stevenson poem, _The Lamplighter._**


	6. Burn It Down

_Door...I can hear the door... _

He blinked wearily as he woke slowly. He didn't think he would sleep after the night he'd had, but clearly that had been wrong. He felt exhausted, wrung out, hollow. He sat up, wakefulness sitting heavy on him, an unwanted state that he'd rather forget about. Early morning sunlight filtered through his curtains; hastily drawn before he'd thrown himself in bed. The hum of traffic grew louder and brasher as he woke more-

There was a knock at the door, and Greg blinked at the clock at his bedside table. _Early. Too early for post, an emergency would call._

He hauled himself out of bed, only noticing his state of undress as he passed his dressing gown hung on the back of the door. The fabric was rough, worn comfortably. Much like Greg himself. Pushing down a yawn he pulled back the door to greet a sheepish looking John Watson.

Greg stared openly, his uncooperative brain refusing to give him the words he needed.

"Hi," John said finally, and Greg had enough presence of mind to step aside, closing his eyes and the door as John passed him.

"_Maybe we should start with just a chat." _

_Greg's fingers drum an uneasy rhythm into the arm of the chair. He imagined the fabric being worn thin by the motion. His eyes gazed across at the bright sunlight streaming in through the window, at the carefully chosen shade of the wallpaper, the faint pattern on the chair itself. How many people had sat in this same chair? Had John? Of course he had. This was his therapist, _he'd_ suggested her...hadn't she just spoken?_

"_A chat? About what?" _

_She gave an elegant shrug, "You tell me. This time is for you."_

_What did he want to talk about? His hand swiped through his hair, rumpling himself and deliberately not making eye contact. Maybe if this just felt normal, it would help. What would he want to talk about with someone else? With a friend?_

"_I...I have this friend-"_

Greg's bedroom was metres away, and yet John seemed insistent on taking him apart here in his front room. His hands had frozen at John's sides, his entire awareness swamped _JohnJohnJohn, _the sounds in his ears muffled by his own thudding pulse. The hot press of John's mouth stole the breath from Greg's lungs, leaving a cooling trail across his throat. It was agony. It was bliss. It was everything he wanted. And yet-

"John-" he managed to gasp, hands moving into action, roughly pushing John away, "I can't, I just... Do you want this?"

John's eyes darted across Greg's flushed face, his pulse thrumming in his throat.

"I want...you. Right now."

_Ella's eyes are sympathetic. She offers him a glass of water when she fetches her own from the cooler in the corner. Greg is gasping. He could probably do with something stronger, but water will do for now. _

"_It's not as if I don't want to tell him," Greg is saying, accepting the water with a grateful nod, "I just don't know whether it's worth the risk."_

A beat. Maybe two. And Greg gave in. Their clothes went quickly, skin bared without another thought, another word. It wasn't what Greg had been imagining. All that time between that first twinge of attraction, and the kiss that caused this to happen, Greg had had a _very _different idea of how this might go.

Instead of soft kisses, trailing touches, there was bared teeth, grip as hard as stone. Instead of anticipation, desperation. John's hands moved with a practiced assurance. Greg's shirt caught as John attempted to pull it over his head, causing John to give up the ghost and begin marking Greg's chest.

"John-" Greg gasped out, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other fruitlessly attempting to divest John, "Bed, come to bed."

Perhaps it was the raw edge in Greg's voice, or the hand that grazed over the skin of his clavicle, but John froze.  
>"John?" Greg murmured, moving to pull John closer as his head raised to look him in the face, "You alright?"<p>

A small shake of the head and it's as if the pause had never happened. Their lips meet. John's hand encircled his cock and stroked him roughly; calloused fingers catching lightly on the sensitive skin there. He gasped into John's mouth, swallowing down the moan that matches it. His own hands were quick, flurried with excitement, as he reached for John's cock. He is slower, gentler, and John's own moans shake Greg down to his core. _This, _he thinks feverishly, _I could do this all night. _

His body, not as young as it once was, has other plans. He can feel his orgasm building. His fingers gripped a little tighter on John, hand slicker now than before, and moved more deliberately. Greg was openly moaning now, body curving towards John's like a shaking question mark.

"John," Greg murmured, pressing his lips to John's quivering pulse, "_Please-" _John was gone. He pulled himself out of Greg's slippery grip. For a few dizzying and terrifying moments Greg's eyes snapped open, expecting to see John retreating, apologising, returning to the pile of clothes strewn across the floor.

But no. John was on his knees, his hand suddenly wrapped around Greg's cock, heavy and thick with need. John looked up at Greg, eyes wide, questioning. Greg felt his chest ache, and a broad smile broke across his face.  
>"Yes," he said softly, suddenly aware of the hush that night had brought in, "I need you." Once he had said it, it seemed simple. And John smiled. Greg decided there and then that he wanted to see that smile more often. Every day, if possible.<p>

Then John's lips were on him, around him, and Greg panted heavily, his fingers fruitlessly stroking John's hair. The swipe and stroke of John's tongue. The warm press of John's hand on the back of his thigh, encouraging him to rock back and forth. The sight of John, eyes closed, face intent as he strokes and teases Greg closer and closer to the edge.

_Greg smiles and sets his glass to the side._

_Ella pauses momentarily, and returns his brief smile,_

"_It's something you have to feel out in time. But some people are worth taking that risk for."_

It was agony. It was fire. It was fierce. And then it broke over him in unstoppable waves. John's hand was steady as Greg released, had taken his cock and swallowed him down to the hilt. The pressure was beautiful, and Greg's legs felt insubstantial. His skin felt prickly, as though every nerve was alight. He stared down at John, beautiful, _beautiful _John. His face was shining, red and blotchy, a slight reddening on one side of his chin. _Stubble rash, _Greg thought, almost giddily. 

"You-" he gasped, words not really solid yet, "You beautiful thing. John, I-" John's face hadn't moved. He was still at Greg's feet. He looked lost.

"John?"  
>"Yeah?"<p>

Greg slunk to his feet, and took John's paling face in his hands.

"I can't do this," John whispered, staring into Greg's eyes with a blankness that chilled him, "I thought...I thought I could keep him _out _but-" Greg didn't have to ask. _Sherlock. _

He held John close, allowing himself this brief moment to keep John to himself, to pretend that he was really _his. _He stroked John's hair; his hand down John's quivering back, cooler now in the early morning sunlight peaking through the windows.  
>"John," Greg murmured, "Come to bed. To sleep. Nothing else, just...sleep."<p>

_Greg's hand squeezes the arm of the chair again. The words are honest, that's what he's here for.  
>"Is that just him?" he asks sceptically, "Or would it work for the dark too?" His voice is steady, glass of water half drunk and forgotten as he stared across so much empty space at Ella. <em>

"_Perhaps," Ella replied evenly, "Perhaps it's worth a try. Only you can decide what to let into your life. Both people and fear. They can be shut out, but only if you want them to."_

John was breathing softly, head pillowed on Greg's arm, fingers splayed on the bump of Greg's hip. Greg could not bring himself to even close his eyes. John would be gone, he was certain of that, if he closed his eyes.

The morning light was becoming brighter, stronger, at his window and Greg winced. He would have to leave in an hour. Work beckoned. Paperwork, criminals, colleagues; none of it seemed worth the bother while he had John cradled in his arms. But he knew morning would break fully, and he would have to face the long day without John. He knew even then, that he had to let this go.

Greg waited until his alarm went off, and apologised as John woke, bleary eyed. Greg thought he looked more beautiful than he had even seen him.

"I have to go to work," he said softly, sat on the edge of the bed. Far enough away that John didn't have to touch him if he didn't want to. John simply nodded. When he spoke his voice was raspy.

"I...I should get dressed. Go home-" _Sherlock will be wondering where I am. _The thought was written all over John's face. Greg didn't question it.

_The door...footsteps...__**John-**_

Sherlock bounded out of his chair, stood in the middle of the living room when John finally made it up the stairs.

_Out all night, steps heavy, same clothes, so not Harry- _The look on John's face hit Sherlock like a punch to the gut. _He's made a choice, and it's not me. _

John started when he saw Sherlock, clearly not expecting him to be up and about. Let alone fully dressed. He stared, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. John had stubble burn. Was walking with a distinct limp. Wearing the same clothes as the night before. Smelled like Lestrade. It was all so obvious, and Sherlock couldn't stand it. He remembered his thoughts of before, and swept forward until John would have had to crane his head up to look into Sherlock's eyes. It was a sure-fire way to rile John into talking. 

John didn't look up. His eyes remained resolutely on Sherlock's chest. He wore the evidence of his sexual congress like a barrier, like a shield. _This is what I want, Sherlock. You can't make me feel anymore. _

It was Sherlock he stepped back, who looked down and glared at the top of John's head. He seethed. Jealousy and possession raged inside his chest like an animal clawing at the cage of his ribs. Vicious and snarling and making keening noises that shouldn't come from an animal in such pain and anger.

"John-" his voice sounded raw to his own ears, like a monster about to pounce. The look in John's eyes took Sherlock aback. _Hurt. Loss. Regret. How could I do this to him now? _

"I'm going to go back to bed," John murmured, fixing Sherlock with his most solid stare. Gone was the hurt and the sadness. There was just a veneer. John's broad shoulders holding him up and back. His soldierly stance another barricade.

Sherlock could do nothing more than nod, and stand aside.

**AN: This is the final chapter of HFB, but I intend on writing a sequel in the future. I know this has been a long time coming, but please forgive me. **


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